


Die Maske des Roten Todes

by mimiccake



Category: Rammstein
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Feeling B era, M/M, Theater - Freeform, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-17 01:21:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29463444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimiccake/pseuds/mimiccake
Summary: Flake is the only skilled pianist at his school. When he is tasked with providing the music for the drama club's upcoming production, Flake ends up more involved in the show than he expected.
Relationships: Paul Landers/Christian Lorenz | Flake
Comments: 6
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic and kind of my first big piece of creative writing that I didn't have to do for a school project. Go easy on me, I'm new haha.  
> And the biggest thanks to Brig. You're an amazing writer and an inspiration. I'm honored that you let me into all of this and I hope I can make a worthy contribution. You're the best <3

Rocking his knee up and down and checking the clock much too often, Flake anxiously waits for class to let out. The time hasn’t changed since the last time he looked, or even the time before that. The lecture drags on and he is just allowing it to torture him. Today is different from other days; he has a new destination after class.

Unfortunately, Flake’s music director has “volunteered” him to help the theater department. They recently began rehearsals for the new show and needed a new live piano player for the accompanying score. Flake isn’t often one for arguing, especially when he realizes his complaints will just fall on deaf ears, so a moan under his breath and a forlorn nod were his only responses to his new assignment.

The thought of walking into a new building and having to drudge through the unwelcome welcomes of the theater department’s cast and crew ushers Flake’s attention far away in a desperate need of distraction. His focus is jerked back into the classroom as students begin standing and speedily making their way to the exit. Flake sighs as he takes his time closing his books, placing them neatly in his bag, and picking up his pencil. He swirls the pencil dexterously between the fingers of his right hand, ending with the tip between his index and thumb. With the eraser end, he pushes the bridge of his glasses higher up on his nose and swings the pencil around to fit snugly atop his ear.

With his hands deep in his pockets and his posture slouched, Flake gloomily drags his feet to the school’s tiny theater. It takes a few tries to find the one of the five doors at the front entrance of the theater that has been left unlocked. Presumably, any member of the drama club would know the right door to use. Flake is the only one to surreptitiously enter a moment after three loud thuds. He sees several students on the stage, each holding a script. Mr. Rompe, the drama teacher and director of the theater department, sits in a middle seat a few rows back, leaning forward as he goes over the goal of today’s rehearsal for the performers. He turns his head toward Flake who, with a meager point of his finger, directs himself to a seat in the back row, awaiting later instruction. Mr. Rompe gives a quick and simple nod of acknowledgement, barely missing a beat.

Flake lets his eyes wander around the auditorium, avoiding the others around the stage. He notes the spots on the walls that could use a fresh coat of paint, the faint weathering of the seats in his row, and the marks left on the back of the seat in front of him, probably left by a bored audience member some time ago. He looks to his left toward the theater’s piano that has been wheeled away from the stage to give the performers more space. Far enough from the stage to not feel like a distraction, Flake gingerly rises from his seat and steps over to the old piano. The keys are uncovered and he traces his fingers lightly over the broken hinges onto which a wooden cover would’ve been attached. A faint smile spreads across Flake’s lips as he thinks, you definitely have personality, I can’t lie. He yearns to bring his fingers down onto the keys and let this old thing sing a melancholy chord.

The piano is old, its pale green finish chipped and slightly stained in places. Aside from the absent cover for the keys and an obvious and poor addition of the wheels, the only “fault” this piece has is a cracked black key toward the right end. He cautiously attempts to press on it, avoiding enough pressure to send the hammer striking against the string. The key seems stuck. Flake agrees that a C# in that octave is unnecessary and if anyone wants one, well, they can go fuck themself. Flake’s smile widens a bit further, but feels the old thing is still missing something. He fishes in his bag and retrieves a small book of sheet music. He opens it to a random page and places the book on the small stand above the keys. He readies to take a step back but faults, removing the pencil from it’s spot on his ear and placing it on the stand in front of the book. Now, he steps back to fully admire this unique and worthy performance partner.

Finishing up his distraction, Flake turns his head to the stage and locks up in shock from the figure standing right behind him. This boy must’ve sneaked up at some point while Flake was tending to the piano and silently made his way even closer so his chin practically rests on Flake’s shoulder.

“Hiya,” the boy whispers to Flake, who is frozen from the unexpected proximity of this older student. Flake has seen him once or twice on campus, but knows little about him. He seems popular and outgoing, providing a smile and friendship to almost every student other than Flake apparently.

“She’s a pretty sweet piece, huh? She’s been here almost as long as the theater; and it shows, yea? That’s character though. She’s got a soft sound but opens up come showtime. I don’t know if you noticed the one black key. I know nothing about pianos, really, but I know that one is broken as shit. That’s not her fault though. Anyone who needs to play that note can let me know and i’ll give them a quick guide for where to shove it..” The boy gives a coy little smile. “Hopefully, you don’t need to play that key because then this might get awkward.”

You must mean more awkward, Flake thinks to himself, his head tilted away from the boy as he stares wide-eyed into the brown eyes staring back at him.

“Where is my Prospero?” shouts Mr. Rompe from across the large room, “Paul! You’re needed on stage, sooner rather than later! Please and thank you!”

The boy, Paul, gives Flake a playful tap on the shoulder with his chin before heading toward the stage. Flake is left to catch his breath and urge the heat from his cheeks, flustered by Paul’s imposed familiarity.

Paul makes his way to the stage, climbing the small set of stairs with energetic little stomps on the old wood, brimming with excitement as he takes the focus from the several other cast members, most of whom are younger students. At some point in his approach, he sneaked a thin fake mustache onto his lip, an addition he and some of the others seem to enjoy. It nearly falls off with Paul’s failure to suppress a grin from growing across his lips.

“And where is my Red Death?” calls out Mr. Rompe. He pauses before looking down at his clipboard. Before he can lift the pages to find the list of students in the club and their roles, a young girl speaks up from the side of the stage, “umm, Jonas moved.”

“Moved,” Mr. Rompe mumbles to himself, “lovely. This department is a sinking ship and people would rather jump off than grab a bucket.” Flustered, he looks over the short list, thinking of which of these students he can afford to move around.

“Mr. Rompe?” Paul interjects. The teacher looks up, awaiting his star’s input. “What about him?” Paul gestures with his head toward Flake, seated again in the back row.

“Christian is being lent to us from the music department. He has a role already: music. I don’t know if he would even want to be on stage,” says Mr. Rompe, standing and turning to Flake for a response. Flake is caught off-guard again, attention suddenly on him. He grips the seat in front for some stability as he awkwardly half-stands, as if it will help him be heard. He manages to get his mouth open, barely enough of a breath in him to respond before, “pssh,” Paul cuts in.

“I’m sure he’s a piano wunderkind, but let’s face it. This play needs a Red Death more than it needs live music. We can use a recorded track. And he doesn’t need to act; it’s barely a speaking role. He’s tall and thin and, with a little work, could pull off brooding. I’ll borrow some recording equipment, so we can even record him playing and use that during the show!” Paul is psyching himself up even more as he figures out the details of this plan. “Then all he will need to learn are his cues and movements. Easy.”

“Hold on, Paul. You’re getting ahead of yourself. Is Christian up for it?” asks Mr. Rompe.

“Of course he’s up for it!” Paul reaches out toward Flake’s overwhelmed and uncertain expression, “that is the face of certainty!” With a bit more steadfast energy and a healthy dose of strong-arming, Mr. Rompe and Flake are convinced, at least enough for Flake to be given the role and a script. For the rest of the day’s rehearsal, Flake sits closer, periodically peeking at the lines briefly before looking around at the other students.

He is more out of place than he could’ve imagined.

* * *

That night, Flake sits in bed, flipping through the script. Mr. Rompe was nice enough to mark Flake’s scenes and told him to highlight his actions. Flake takes note of the lines spoken before everything he is supposed to do, awkwardly reaching out with a hand or leaning forward menacingly when the script called for it, before he became painfully self-aware and embarrassed for himself. He resigns to simply speed over the rest of his appearances in the show and figure out the movements during rehearsal or some other time. His eyes are heavy, strained from the study session in the less-than-ideal lighting atop his bed, as they skim over his last scene.

Prospero, played by Paul, has run away from the guests of his masquerade. He is pursued by the Red Death, played by Flake. Prospero is cornered, he has a knife out, and he turns to confront the Red Death. Rather than attacking, Prospero drops his weapon in defeat and steps toward the figure. Powerless, Prospero is grabbed by the Red Death and the two kiss. Prospero falls to the - wait, Flake thinks, they kiss? He reads over the lines a few more times before pausing to think.

Flake becomes aware of the sweat gathering on his forehead and nervously wipes it away. He is uncomfortable and painfully conscious of it now, and he is unsure why he is so anxious. Is it the kiss? Is it because he has to kiss another boy? Is it because he has to kiss Paul?

He can’t think about this anymore.

Flake resolves that he should never have allowed Paul to force him into this position. It was all just a blur; so quickly he had all this attention on him, was given a script and appreciation for helping, and was on his way home. At no point was he able to speak up and object to how absurd it is to give a kid who was supposed to just play the piano a major role in a play. And now he’s expected to not just learn all of this quickly, but adjust to it and be comfortable with all of this?

He has to quit.

* * *

The next morning drifts past Flake like a heavy fog. His focus constantly shifts to what is ahead as he plans out what words to use, repeating it all in his mind to find the best way to say it. Confident but not aggressive; final and without need of a reason. Flake knows all of this preparation will be worthless once he has expecting eyes on him.

Reviewing every bit of this hypothetical conversation doesn’t even calm him down; it never does. It only keeps his mind in turmoil, dragging him roughly through the day.

When noon finally comes, he’s lost any bit of confidence the Flake in his planned scenario may have had. With his brow furrowed and his gaze set downward, Flake anxiously nibbles his lip as he begins toward the theater.

Along the way, he spots Paul with a group of friends. The boys are all laughing, Paul’s face contorted by a large grin, his eyes squinted. He suddenly catches sight of Flake, who meets Paul’s eyes at a distance for the briefest moment before Flake instinctively averts his gaze with a warm shock through his system. He feels the heat in his face as he desperately tries to continue on his path as if nothing happened.

“Christian!” shouts Paul as he quickly bids his friends farewell and hurries over toward his target.

“It’s Flake,” Flake mumbles under his breath. He looks up toward Paul, losing hold on his expressions as his eyebrows rise in an attempted nonchalance. He cocks a small side-smirk. Flake hates that he can’t help but try to seem cool to Paul.

Paul catches up to Flake and says with a huff from his brief jog, “hey Christian, I’m glad I caught up with you. I wanted to--”

“It’s Flake,” Flake once again mumbles, this time a little louder.

“What was that?”

“My name, it-it’s, uh, Flake. Call me...call me Flake.”

“Oh, ok,” responds Paul, barely missing a beat as if he didn’t take in what the other boy said, “I just wanted to say thanks for stepping up yesterday. I’m glad you’re going to be in the show and it is really a big help.”

Flake stops, hoping to center himself, but instead stumbles, “I-I’m thinking, actually about, um, quitting. Yea, I-I just don’t. I don’t think…” Paul’s smile is replaced with a look of worry. “I’m not sure. I just think it’s a bad idea,” Flake hopefully finishes. That’ll have to be good enough for now, he thinks to himself.

“No, hang on.” Paul actually seems a bit flustered, a rare break in the impeccable facade. “We’ve got something great being built. We need you. I need you, I need this to be great. What we’ve planned so far, the changes,” Paul struggles to sort out his thoughts in this unexpected moment. “This show--look, I know this all seems like a lot, something you’re not used to and scary. I’ve been there, I get it. But Flake trust me, please. I know you can do this.” Paul grips Flake’s shoulders and looks deep into his eyes. Flake’s eyes widen as he is locked in Paul’s sight.

“You and me. We can do this, together. We will make this show. It’ll be the best performance ever seen at this school and they won’t forget it. They won’t. I’m right here all along the way to help you. We can do this.

“You and me.” Paul gives a re-affirming nod, which is effective enough on Flake as to dissuade him from objecting. Paul’s smile returns and Flake feels his own lips begin to pull upward, returning an awkward smile toward Paul. Seeing Flake’s response, Paul smiles even brighter, showing his teeth and squinting his eyes until they’re almost closed. He gives Flake a firm pat on the arm and turns to face the same direction. The two head off toward the theater. Flake’s smile drops a bit once he breaks from the charm of Paul’s brown eyes; he feels guilty for being so easily persuaded, but Paul seems to be a weakness for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Over the next few rehearsals, Flake awkwardly deals with introductions to the other students who are outgoing-enough to initiate conversation when not acting. Periodically, he finds himself looking around for Paul, finding him contentedly in conversation with other students. He seems easily distracted, but he can also be very focused. Paul also takes a mentor-like role with some of the performers and even crew members, giving tips on delivering lines as often as suggestions for set decoration and outfits. Paul seems very knowledgeable about every aspect of the theater department; he must have been doing this for a while.

Flake waits for his time with Paul.

He feels more awkward and alone when he is aware of Paul’s distance. It’s a strange dichotomy of feelings that Flake is not used to in the slightest. When Paul is near him, Flake fears that he can be observed and judged at any moment, but also feels safer, trusting that Paul would pick him up if he fell. When Paul is far, it is like there is no safety net that will catch and hold Flake. At the same time, it means Flake isn’t as flustered by how he may appear in Paul’s eyes, giving him a chance to think.

Flake really wishes he knew why he cared so much about how Paul sees him.

The time finally comes for the two of them to practice a scene together. While Mr. Rompe works with a handful of the actors in a group scene that doesn’t include Paul’s character, Paul takes Flake to the small lobby of the theater to work through the scene that Flake secretly dreads. He has been anticipating this, unsure of whether Paul would talk him through the kiss or be nonchalant about it. Would he practice  _ that _ with Flake or not even do it until the final performance?

The two take their places, Paul being the only one with lines to speak. He immediately gets into character: a distressed Prospero, out of breath from running. He impressively works through his lines, almost stunning Flake with his emotion. Flake doesn’t remember all of these words, he didn’t feel a need to memorize every line from this scene, just the final line that cues the moment he has sweated over for days.

What must be midway through Prospero’s brief and final monologue of the play, Paul falters. He sighs and looks over Flake. “I’m not buying it.”

“I’m sorry?” inquires Flake, “did I mess something up? Don’t I just sort of stand here and then slowly walk to you, a-and then we--”

“Did you even read the script?” asks Paul.

“Yea,” Flake responds. Paul gives him a doubtful look, an eyebrow raised. “I looked over the parts I’m in. That’s good enough. I know where to go, who to walk to, who to look at. I know it.”

“You don’t know shit,” Paul interjects, giving Flake a look almost of disappointment. Flake feels somewhat offended by this. Paul put him in such a stressful position making him participate in all of this, and now he is pushing even  _ further _ .

Paul suddenly steps up close to Flake, who tries not to flinch in surprise. Once Paul is a mere foot away from Flake, he stares intensely into his eyes. 

“You want me,” Paul says. Flake is about to interject with confusion before Paul continues, “and you don’t know why. Not really, not yet. You walk among us and you stand out, eyes always seem to be on you, yet yours are only ever trained on me. Why?”

Flake fears he has given something away. Is Paul seeing more of Flake’s feelings and desires than Flake is?

Paul lightly shoves a script into Flake’s chest. “Every line.” Flake finally flinches, grabbing the script and keeping it where it is, against his chest. “Every word.” Paul pushes a finger into the pages slowly and repeatedly. “You’re going to read it all. Then you’re going to tell me why. Understood?”

Flake nods timidly. Paul tries to muster an assuring smile. “Until then, we can hold off on this scene. No one can do anything with you just standing there. The audience won’t feel a damn thing. They need to fear you, sure. But most of all, they need to understand you. That’s difficult if you don’t talk; it’s a lot fucking harder if  _ you _ don’t understand what you want.”

Paul bites his lip, seemingly frustrated. He lets out a huff and a half-hearted pat on Flake’s shoulder before heading back to the stage. Flake stands there alone, clutching the script to his chest. His throat slowly tightens and he feels tears gather in his eyes before they come cascading down his cheeks. He silently looks to the exit of the building, hating the disappointment he has become in Paul’s eyes.

* * *

That night, Flake lies in bed in the dim light of his room. He stares at the ceiling, the script on his chest. His arms and legs are splayed out. His sheets have been pushed to the edge of his bed, perilously close to falling to the floor. Flake’s eyes are red and sore and his cheeks are marked by tears, some dried out, some fresh. He can’t help wasting the night replaying that confrontation. To Paul, it must’ve been nothing. An easily-overlooked incident with a lazy kid who doesn’t know how to do anything. Disappointing. Worthless. Flake’s eyes shut as another wave of hurt crushes down on him, tightening his chest and coaxing more tears from his worn-out eyes.

He sniffs and adjusts himself, rising to sit against the wall. Flake grabs the script and opens to the first page. He doesn’t care if it takes all night and every ounce of energy he can muster, he will have an answer for Paul tomorrow. He doesn’t know why it is so important. So important to Paul that Flake understands this. So important to Flake that Paul doesn’t hate him. The thought hits him again and he winces.

Flake skips rehearsal the next day.

* * *

Over the weekend, Flake has time to clear his head. He doesn’t feel like he must race to an answer for Paul. He reads the whole script, it’s not that long. It’s a nice play, sad but nice. He even reads it again, enjoying it more the second time. Flake begins to understand the allegory of the play. Prospero hiding out in his lavish home with guests accustomed to exorbitance while everyone else is dying in the streets from disease. They are bad people. Scared people. Prospero more than any of them. The story is about inevitability, Flake concludes. Prospero spends the whole play running from the Red Death, a figure whose mere presence is imposing and a reminder of what Prospero fears the most. He tries in vain to escape his pursuer, but finally gives up and accepts the Red Death’s embrace.

Flake feels almost comforted. The kiss at the end seems so less imposing once he realizes what it represents. It could be a hug, it could be a handshake. What matters is the connection of the two. The purser and the pursued. The peace finally given by the former once the latter is ready to accept it. Paul is scared and in pain, and only Flake can comfort him. Their characters, he means.

He won’t let Paul down this time.

* * *

The next day, Flake walks into the theater lobby for rehearsal, passing some small cases of what seem to be audio equipment outside the door to the small engineering room. The door is slightly ajar, and Flake’s curiosity gets the better of him. He cracks the door open a bit further. It creaks in protest as Flake pokes his head inside. He sees Paul, brow furrowed, looking over messy plugs, sockets, and all the old tech in the tiny booth.

Paul looks up to greet Flake, “oh, hey Flake.” Not expecting to be face-to-face with Paul so quickly, Flake’s bit of confidence and enthusiasm falters as he responds, “hey.”

“We missed you last rehearsal,” says Paul, “I-I worried I might’ve scared you off.”

Flake responds with a raspy and strained chuckle, undercut by a couple of other students giggling to each other as they pass through the lobby, waving to Paul. Paul plants a smile on his face and gives a friendly nod to them in recognition.

“Do you want to come in here a second?” asks Paul. Flake hesitates. “It’s ok, I won’t bite,” assures Paul, as he opens the door for Flake. Flake steps in, squeezes around the door, and returns it to its original position, slightly ajar.

“I may have come on a bit strong. I was...I’m sorry. I know all of this is still new and I should’ve been, I suppose, more  _ gentle _ .” Paul doubts his words as he says them, lacking confidence in the effectiveness of his apology.

“It-it’s fine, Paul. I’m sorry if it seemed like I wasn’t taking it all seriously. I just--”   


“No-no, I didn’t mean to--I know you’re trying,” Paul averts his gaze, his eyes mindlessly darting around as he thinks, “I can see you care more than some of the others, even. I just really want this all to go well, and…” Paul loses his train of thought.

There is a pause. Flake makes an effort to end the silence, “I know why now.” Paul looks back up at Flake with a look as if he’s been seen through. “I know why the Red Death is pursuing Prospero the way he does,” Flake says, a confident smile developing on his lips.

Paul returns a budding smile before casting his glance downward and shaking his head. “We don’t need to focus on that right now. I was actually hoping that we can start recording your music today. It might take a few days if we only use rehearsal time, then we can get back to all of that.”

“Oh, ok cool,” Flake responds, pleased at the idea of returning to his original passion.

“I was busy looking through all of this junk to see what we’ll need to get a recording through the speakers. The theater hasn’t really gotten any new tech in all the time that I’ve been in the club. Mr. Rompe isn’t on the best terms with the more authoritarian members of the staff that would approve for a better budget for the theater, so we have what we have.” Pointing to the cases still in the hall, Paul continues, “but I’m pretty resourceful, if I do say so myself.” Paul grins pridefully. Again and without fail, Paul’s smile infects Flake. A warmth returns to his chest and face that he just realizes he has been without for a few days. 

He missed it.

It’s an awkward feeling still, but he doesn’t feel that same urge to question it. He just allows himself to respond to Paul naturally and enjoy it without worry.

“So, there’s some room backstage where we can record. I thought about maybe borrowing a keyboard from the music department - it would be easier to record than with a mic - but I think it’s only right that we have you play  _ Babushka _ . She’s old and weathered, but she’s got spirit. And I want to hear her bidding farewell when we take a bow.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll avoid C#,” Flake says lightheartedly.

“Is that the black key? You fucking better,” Paul returns in jest. The two laugh together and hold quiet eye-contact for a moment. “Well let’s get to it. I got some help last week rolling the old thing into the back.”

* * *

Paul and Flake spend some time positioning the old piano just right, hanging up extra curtains and testing recordings to make sure the sound is nice. They are far enough backstage that the other performers on stage can barely be heard; it’s just the two of them in the quiet of the old theater. Flake sets up at the piano, happy to finally be able to play it. He didn’t have time to regret losing the chance because of how quickly he was thrust into his new role. He’s pleased that he has the chance now.

Relaxing into a sort of meditative state, fingers gently tracing along the edge of the keys, Flake almost forgets that Paul is there. When Paul begins to speak up, nervous anticipation builds within Flake. He wants to share this with Paul; the one aspect of himself that Flake is proud of, he wants Paul to see.

“So how do you think we should do it? Scene-by-scene, with different tracks?” Paul tries to work out the plan for recording. He begins spitting out different ideas and haphazard thoughts on themes, using vague music terms, clearly unfamiliar with the topic from a creator perspective. Flake begins to play a gentle melody, a habit he developed to help him kneed ideas from his mind. It is soft and soothes Paul’s disjointed energy until he is no longer talking, just watching Flake meddle with the keys.

“A story like this, the melancholy of it all, shouldn’t need an overwhelming musical accompaniment. We don’t want the audience  _ scared _ , but we want them pulled in. A little can go a long way. They’ll come along with _you_ no matter what; I just want to provide some background tunes for the ride,” Flake says softly, with lidded eyes and a tilted head. He is lost in the flow of his own music, he doesn’t notice Paul’s quiet approach until he feels the warmth of Paul’s hand hovering over his own.

The familiar heat returns to Flake, this time much more intense. Paul has practically wrapped himself around Flake, his chin over Flake’s shoulder, the fingers of his right hand now resting gently on Flake’s.

“I don’t know how you do it, Flake,” mutters Paul, “you make it look effortless. I can barely track your fingers. They seem - I don’t know - scared, skittering across the keys weightlessly, but the sound is,” Paul turns his head slightly, almost brushing into Flake’s, as their eyes connect, “amazing.” Paul smirks and gives Flake a look of admiration, so different from the Paul that left Flake alone to cry in the lobby.

Flake’s heart is nearly pounding out of his chest. He fears that Paul might even hear it. Paul is so close to him that he might even feel the beating himself.

“Here,” Paul says, bringing his hand under Flake’s and lining up their fingers. “Show me how to play a little something. You can move me like a puppet.” Paul is playfully excited.

Flake’s eyes flicker back in forth as he hastily thinks through his repertoire of melodies for something simple. “Oh,” Flake pipes up, “I actually got this little chord progression in my head while I was rereading the first scene of the script. I’ll simplify it so you can play it.” Flake lightly grabs Paul’s hand, moving it down an octave and bringing Paul in to almost embrace Flake. “Watch what keys we’ll play,” Flake instructs. He slowly guides Paul through the notes, Paul’s brow furrowed in focus. The sound softly conveys angst and a feeling of sad conclusion. Though he may not be used to expressing himself with words, Flake has learned how to write endless stories in his music.

Once Paul has picked up the notes and begins playing them without assistance from Flake, he runs through them again before stopping and staring off.

“It’s the beginning of the end, huh?” says Paul, “it’s pretty in a sad way. Sad in a pretty way. I like it.”

“It’s a good place to start, I suppose. I might need time to mess around, to expand it.”

“Point taken,” Paul jokes, “I can leave the  _ meister _ to figure it all out. I’ll go help out the others while you work.” Flake didn’t mean it like that. Paul gets up, patting Flake on the shoulder warmly. Flake desperately tries to think of a reason to keep Paul there with him, time running out quickly as Paul moves the bits of audio equipment into one spot, out of the way.

As Flake is about to speak up, Paul chimes in, “you know, Christoph plays the drums a bit. He likes to talk to me about rhythm and energy and how sometimes less is more, yeah? I don’t know, just an idea.”

“Who’s Christoph?” Flake asks.

“Oh, my bad. I thought I mentioned him before.”

“No, the name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Oh,” Paul giggles a bit, “Christoph’s my boyfriend.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one was harder to write. We will see if this is the end or if there is another chapter to sort of bring it all to a close. But, I hope you like it nonetheless.

_ Boyfriend _ . Flake lingers on the word. He is sitting in the stale air, surrounded by the heavy curtains, set pieces, and random bits of equipment. How long has it been since Paul walked off to join the others? Flake hasn’t touched the piano since playing with Paul.

How could he be so stupid? Flake picks apart the last moments he had with Paul, every look, every word, every touch. Flake scorns himself for even considering that there was a deeper meaning to Paul’s actions. But those eyes. Flake shutters, eyes closed, sinking into himself. The warmth from Paul still clings to Flake, a now-uncomfortable heat in this cramped mess. It is a blanket far too heavy to bear, but far too soft to discard.

How could he be  _ so stupid _ ? With nothing but time and a silent loneliness, Flake begins sinking deeper into the abyss of his own self-hate.

Paul is Paul, charismatic and happy. And Flake is Flake. At worst, he is utterly and irredeemably worthless. At best, he is just Flake, unimportant and overlooked. Not someone you cozy up to, nor someone you want to wrap your arms around and hold.

Flake sits, sweating, with his hands above the keys. He feels sick. He is the only one there to witness his shame, so his biggest critic is in the audience. It is far too intimidating for Flake to bring his fingers down onto the keys, even slightly. The one place he was meant to be confident is now just another place to which he can no longer escape from himself.

* * *

Figuring he is useless - once again - in this current mental state, Flake turns off the equipment and picks up his things. He makes his way through the corridor leading back to the stage, an energy in his step eager to escape from all of this. Pacing along the side of the stage and down the steps into the aisle of the theater, Flake’s eyes are cast low. It’s quiet and dark. He must have been sitting at the piano for far too long, lost in thought. The others must have left a while ago, but Flake isn’t interested. He just wants to be far from this place and from the thoughts still swirling in his mind like a thick sludge.

“Heading out?” a familiar voice softly pipes up from the stage. Flake freezes. He doesn’t know whether to run or turn, scared of what may come bursting out of him. He trepidatiously decides on the latter, looking toward the stage to see Paul, in the dark, sitting at the edge of the stage with his legs dangling over the edge, hands in his lap.

“I-It’s late,” Flake meagerly responds, “I should probably get home.”

It’s hard to read Paul’s expression at this distance and in the faint light that remains in the theater. Flake sees Paul move a hand to his side. Paul pats the ground next to him. The invitation is unexpectedly meager, considering who it is from, and Flake hesitates. Despite everything, Flake is drawn in.

“I suppose I can stay for a bit,” Flake says, not trying to seem too eager. He approaches the front of the stage, places his bag on the floor, and props himself up onto the edge next to Paul. It’s a wonder Flake didn’t fumble through the dark, considering how clumsy he can be when self-aware.

The pair sit in silence for a few minutes, Flake nervously thinking for something to say to either break the tension or excuse himself from it.  _ Don’t say it, please Flake, don’t ask about it, please _ \--

“So you have a boyfriend?” asks Flake. He shuts his eyes, squeezing them tight for a moment as he winces at his own awkward attempt at straightforwardness.

“Yeah,” Paul responds tersely, unlike himself.

“Cool, cool,” Flake responds, “how’s that going?” Flake is appalled with whatever force is making him ask such questions.

Paul does not respond right away. He looks down. “It’s really nice. Christoph is nice. He can be a little quiet sometimes, but I don’t mind. I know he has plenty going on in his head. You two are similar in that way.” Flake feels a nervous joy being compared to someone Paul is so close to. “I love him. And I think he loves me, too.” Paul’s voice falters a bit. Flake notices. He doesn’t want to talk about Paul’s love life or question Paul’s doubt of his boyfriend’s love, but he can sense this boy’s uncertainty and a bubbling anguish with which Flake is all-too-familiar. At this moment, Paul’s feelings are more important.

“Y-You think?” Flake wishes he had a more gentle way of asking.

Paul sighs, but it quickly turns to a groan that builds with stress. It surprises Flake, the volume out of place in the silence that encompasses them. “I just--it’s hard to tell, sometimes, what he wants, what his plans are. I’m battling between what’s in the moment and what’s ahead, but Christoph just seems to enjoy our time together today and  _ maybe _ tomorrow. Does that make sense?”

“Sure, I suppose. But, Paul, you seem like the type to just ask when you want to know something. Have you talked to him?”

“I’ve  _ tried _ !” responds Paul, agitation building. “He won’t talk to me plainly. He’ll divert the conversation to a different topic or just try to make out.” Flake didn’t need to hear that, but furrows his brow in concern. He doesn’t need to respond.

Paul’s tension releases as his shoulders slump a bit. “I suppose the absence of a response  _ is _ the response. I guess it’s something I should’ve seen coming. I mean, what do I expect to happen when I finish school this year? He has plans; he’s brought them up before. Of course, none of them seem to incorporate me outright, but I guess I hoped - I don’t know - that this would never end.”

The silence returns.

“I suppose Prospero has to stop running eventually,” Flake says, thinking of nothing else to say but instantly regretting a possibly inconsiderate response.

The two sit there, neither moving. Flake hates seeing Paul so lifeless, barely able to whimper. Uncertainty doesn’t fit Paul the way it does Flake, and Flake wants to fix it all for this boy he cares about.

“I suppose a kiss is too quick,” continues Flake. Paul looks at him, confused. “All this time spent scared, anxious of what’s to come, just to end with an embrace and  _ that’s it _ ? Acceptance should be, I don’t know--”

“Enjoyed?” Paul chimes in. Flake smiles.

“Yes. It may be bitter sweet, but the best way to move on is with joy, not sorrow.”

“So, a dance then?” Paul smiles. “Would you dance with me?”

Flake is taken off-guard. “Um, I’m not really a dancer. Or is this a metaphor? I think I’m getting lost in the double-meaning. You want to dance instead of kiss?”

Paul starts giggling at Flake’s flustered rambling. “I want to enjoy it. What’s a better way to go?”

_ I’m not a great kisser,  _ Flake thinks to himself,  _ but you’d probably enjoy it a lot more than trying to dance with me _ .

“I suppose a dance instead of a kiss would be better. If anything, it would mean I wouldn’t get shit from Christoph over a stage kiss again. He’s never been outright jealous about it, but you can sense that thing from someone, you know?”

“Sure...” Flake responds with less energy, starting to regret removing a kiss with Paul from his future. He tilts his head slightly as he slumps over the edge of the stage, staring at the old carpeted floor.

With a grunt, Paul pushes off of the stage and lands on the floor. 

“Alright, Flake. I’m gonna head home, I’m beat. Get down here.”

Flake follows, jumping down and looking to Paul with a smile, searching for a bit of validation for his simple maneuver.

“Come here,” says Paul, as he wraps Flake in a hug. A bit surprised, Flake awkwardly returns the hug with no confidence. In the moment, he is unsure of every aspect of the embrace. Where should his hands go, where should his face go, how tight should he hold Paul, is he making too much contact, is he hugging Paul for too long, does Paul now regret hugging him? 

Flake can’t just enjoy a connection with this boy he cares for.

“You’re a good friend, Flake,” says Paul, muffled with a cheek squeezed up against Flake’s shoulder.


End file.
